WHERE POETS GO TO DIE

Go – but refuse to die
I did that – it’s too beautiful, truly
Even as I lay barely breathing
as wounded as the dying swan
Still, I would have sold my soul to live there
forever, but my writing was…missing
Maybe too much gloriousity, or altitude…
But only for the first week or so…
Then slowly, slowly I felt the need to bleed words
The compulsion was upon me…it was as if I
could not put down my pen
It came to me then; maybe there was something to
this poetic death thing